


Midwinter Meetings

by Ammar



Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Forum: Goldenlake, Gen, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 05:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11075229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ammar/pseuds/Ammar
Summary: Aniki is a sell-sword in Hamrkeng. A dangerous young cove comes to town. The children of Hamrkeng are disappearing. The three are linked. Origin-story, from a certain point of view.[Very slight reference to the Pied Piper of Hamelin.]





	Midwinter Meetings

The snow fell in soft, powdery drifts across Hamrkeng. Overnight, the capital of Scanra was transformed from a sea of wood-and-stone houses to a thick white ocean. Icicles hung from the eaves where water had a tendency to leak. Aniki stamped down the street in her boots and a fleece-lined coat, her breath emerging in puffs of pale mist. Only two years since she’d come to Hamrkeng, and already the city was beginning to grow on her.  
  
Winter had crept up on Hamrkeng when she hadn’t been looking, and the wide, open market squares were already crowded with stalls selling all sorts of crafted goods, mulled wine, and holiday snacks. Midwinter was well on its way, and the sombre capital had become a festive place of light and warmth, despite the snow.  
  
Even in Erdskegg, a small northern coastal village where Aniki had grown up, they’d heard of the Midwinter markets of the larger cities like Hamrkeng and Rotesdam and Frarslund. In the months before the fair, traders like Old Teg would make the long journey from one of the port cities up by wagon to the smaller villages like Erdskegg, purchasing the year’s catch and the crafts the villagers had to offer. The blacksmith, Geir Halskarssen had even made the trip down to Rotesdam for the Midwinter fair, years ago when he’d been a young apprentice.  
  
Most of them had never seen the cities before; large and sprawling with wooden houses packed tightly together end to end. Typical Scanran cities had narrow streets, some of them winding, and only after Aniki had come to Hamrkeng did she understand why Geir had contemptously dismissed the big cities as firetraps.  
  
This time of the year, it wasn’t uncommon for the fire brigade to work around the clock to put out the many small fires that arose from careless merrymaking. When she’d come to Hamrkeng, the city had been rebuilding from the great fire that had scorched entire districts to nothing but charred stone and ash a year ago. Fire spread easily in the tight spaces between the wooden houses, and it had only been the winter damp that stopped it from getting worse. But summer, Aniki had learned, was always the harshest season. There was less water then.  
  
Aniki moved between the stalls at the Midwinter market in Thanesweir square. This was one of the larger markets, and she had been eyeing the work of some of the blacksmiths who were displaying their crafts there. Her purse was heavy from a recent job completed, and she’d been thinking of getting herself a new dagger; her old one was worn and no longer held an edge well.  
  
The Thanesweir Market was crowded, as usual. Children laughed and played in the snow; some held wooden carved animals from one of the stalls. Everywhere, wooden posts were decorated with garlands of hawthorn and yew, both associated with Blind Hod, the Scanran god of winter and death. But grim Blind Hod was not the only Scanran god who presided over Midwinter celebrations; on Midwinter itself, a Chief Fool would be crowned, in honour of Lotr the Scanran trickster god. Scanran children in the cities often looked forward to the Midwinter plays where Players assuming the mantles of Blind Hod and Golden Sunnr reenacted the story of Blind Hod leading his brother out of the underworld with the aid of the Hearthkeeper and the ravens.  
  
Aniki had heard of the stories; she’d even seen a play once. But the plays in the Hamrkeng markets were large, grand affairs. The one in Erdskegg had been small, the actors all children from the village. She’d played the Hearthkeeper, once. But that was all years ago. Shiari had made a wonderful Sunnr, laughing and always cheerful…  
  
A familiar voice broke her out of her thoughts. “Busy, hmm?”  
  
Aniki laughed, turning around. “Cathair,” she greeted. When she’d come to Hamrkeng, lured, like so many other sell-swords by the prospect of earning a better kind of life, she’d fallen in with Cathair. Cathair Idrissra was tall, his blond hair tied up neatly behind him by a fraying band. Strong, and with pale blue eyes, he was the typical northern Scanran in both build and colouring. For all of that, Aniki knew Cathair came from the southeast, from Hildursvren, close to the Gallan border.  
  
He was dressed warmly in a russet coat, and he’d pulled a leather wrap over his axe before carrying it in its shoulder-harness. They’d been sell-swords for long enough to know that a sell-sword never went anywhere unarmed; Aniki figured they’d both been on the road for longer than that.  
  
“Out to see the sights?” Cathair asked.  
  
“Aye,” Aniki said. “The blacksmiths here do good work.” And for all that their last job had been difficult, they’d been amply compensated for the trouble. That much was true about Hamrkeng at least: there was much work for a sell-sword to be found there, and coin easy enough to come by with the right reputations and the right skills.  
  
“That they do,” Cathair said, “All the cheaper too, given it’s the Midwinter market.” His accent wasn’t the typical southern accent; it had a touch of foreign inflection to it, but he’d once mentioned off-hand that he’d spent a few years in Carthak. “Planning on buying something, or are we going to stand around here jawing off all day?”  
  
Aniki gave a lazy shrug. “It’s all the same to me,” she said. “Those blacksmiths aren’t going anywhere until past Midwinter, and I’ve yet to see a good piece worth spending some coin on.”  
  
Cathair snorted. “Walk with me,” he offered. “See the sights and gape like a bunch of country bumpkins fresh to the city.”  
  
Aniki laughed. “I suppose I could do that.”  
  


* * *

  
  
They bought mulled wine and warm pies at one of the stalls, and ate and drank as they explored the market. Mostly, they strolled and enjoyed the leisurely pace; as Aniki saw it, they had enough coin to tide them over for the next two months. They’d earned their Midwinter downtime.  
  
“That one, look at him,” Cathair said, as they crossed the narrow alley that connected the Thanesweir market with a couple of side-streets that led eventually to the Kingsweg and then the Kingssquare market. “Striking, isn’t he?”  
  
Aniki sought for the man that Cathair had picked out in the crowd, sliding over rushers and sell-swords and the occasional pickpocket. And then her eyes fell upon him; tall and lean and deadly-looking. Tow-headed, hair creeping almost towards white, and dark eyes. She’d seen sell-swords look less dangerous than the man. A silver earring glinted in his left ear. She counted one visible saxe-knife, and that probably meant at least four other knives she couldn’t see. “Proper rusher, that one,” she murmured.  
  
“You think?” Cathair scoffed. “Must be new.”  
  
Aniki glanced at him, eyebrow raised. “You’d think we’d remember a rusher like that, if we’d seen him around before,” Cathair added. “Certainly looks like he can handle himself.”  
  
There was truth to that, Aniki thought. It wasn’t uncommon for Midwinter to bring strangers to Hamrkeng; farmers travelling to the city to sell their produce, traders that had made the route from the coastal villages, or even travellers hoping to see the city sights. And sell-swords. Always sell-swords.  
  
Her curiosity over the stranger dissipated as she spotted another familiar face in the crowd. This one boded ill; Aniki felt her hands clenching into fists at her side. Einar Konigen walked the crowd, his axe nowhere in sight. He wasn’t unarmed, though. Aniki would’ve bet her life on that. In a way, she was doing so, by standing there and watching him. Even the crowd gave him a wide berth. Einar was the right-hand man of one of the chiefs of the Scanran Rogue in Hamrkeng. That made him one of the most dangerous men in Scanra—or at least in Hamrkeng.  
  
Flaming hair, sharp blue eyes, and the scar cutting a strong furrow across his nose. A short beard. She’d have recognised that face anywhere. In fact, she had recognised it, despite the intervening years. Age had done him unwarranted kindness.  
  
“Archer on the roofs,” Cathair said, into her ear. He didn’t bother to be quiet; in this din, they’d never be overheard. “I count two of them—no, four. Two guards on the ground. The Sea Wolf hasn’t lost his edge.”  
  
The Sea Wolf, that was what they called Einar Konigen. The man led raids and sacked villages, looting and taking the freeholders as slaves for the Tortallan and Carthaki markets, among other places. Sometimes, the villages he attacked were Scanran. It made no difference. Some whispered that Konigen must have cut a deal with a clan lord, a jarl, because surely even the influence of the Rogue couldn’t have been enough to protect him from when he occasionally took even serfs as plunder.  
  
All this, Aniki knew. She’d heard that over the years, and spent even more time cautiously listening in to talk about the Sea Wolf. Einar had many enemies, and so was always cautious. Paranoid even. Aniki didn’t believe the last. There wasn’t such a thing as too paranoid in Scanra, where clans warred and made truce and raided each other’s land and cattle, fighting over the scarce resources they had. The ground was cold and hard and difficult to farm, and she’d grown up through the Hunger Years where she’d heard many other villages dependent on crops and produce had starved and scraped moss and bark to eat.  
  
They’d been fortunate in Erdskegg; catch had sometimes been scarce, but it was enough to tide them over the thin years.  
  
Word was that some of the seers and weather mages saw another series of lean years ahead. Aniki didn’t make the Sign to ward off the evil thoughts. Still, her hand fell briefly to the worn leather wrappings of her sword hilt. Lean years to come and the Sea Wolf back in Hamrkeng. Neither boded well for Midwinter.  
  
“I wonder what he’s doing in Hamrkeng,” Aniki murmured.  
  
Cathair shrugged. “Visiting the Midwinter markets? Must be nice not to have to do anything for Midwinter,” he commented dryly.  
  
Aniki gave him a nudge. “Hush,” she said. “We don’t have to, either.”  
  
Cathair grinned. “Aye, I suppose that’ll make it the best Midwinter yet.” He glanced thoughtfully as the Sea Wolf moved through the crowd, leaving a small trail of chaos in his wake. “I take it it’ll be the White Horse for you, then?”  
  
Aniki winked, stretching languidly. “I’m thinking of following them down a street or two. See what brings the Sea Wolf to Hamrkeng for Midwinter. Then mayhap I’ll sit in the Horse for a while, and try their good ale.”  
  
“I’ll keep a ear out,” Cathair said. He didn’t ask her to be careful; he knew. “I’ll see you at the Horse when I’ve got a moment.”  
  
“Found yourself a gixie, have you?”  
  
They’d been close in that sort of way before—were still close, especially on occasion, but there was nothing of that sort of claim staked. Had never been.  
  
Cathair shook his head ruefully. “Perhaps,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “Unfortunately, the Watch Captain stopped by this morning.”  
  
When she had risen early to purchase breakfast from the baker and to perform her morning exercises. Scarce wonder she hadn’t heard of it until now.  
  
“What did she want?” Aniki asked. The formidable Captain of the West District Watch, Lidir Oswaldssra was from the Gallan border, like Cathair. The common patronymic gave it away. Lidir Oswaldssra was a name by which any rusher who’d done work for the Scanran Rogue swore by. She knew everything, or almost everything that went by in her district, and perhaps even out of it. It was said there wasn’t any deal in West Hamrkeng that Lidir Oswaldssra didn’t have a hand in, or an eye on, from the dealings of the Rogue to some of the games the clan chiefs played.  
  
“Tracking charms,” Cathair said.  
  
“What about the Tyran?” Aniki frowned for a moment, trying to recall the name of the mage that worked with the Watch in West District. “Draper?”  
  
Cathair snorted. “Please,” he said. “They pulled him out of the Spinefish piss-blink drunk. Again.”  
  
“Bet a silver crown that Oswaldssra has him clapped in the stocks for two days.”  
  
“Two days? More like a week. Bet.” They clasped hands briefly to seal the bet. Then Aniki wandered off in the direction that she’d last seen Konigen head towards.  
  


* * *

  
  
If Konigen had business other than at the Midwinter markets, it wasn’t clear. Aniki kept a close eye on his guards, and tailed him through the Northfaring market, always pausing to browse a basket of woven ribbons or leather goods.  
  
A hand fell on her shoulder. “Curious man, isn’t he?” someone breathed into her ear. There was no dagger pricking into her back; not that Aniki could feel, and she glanced up and her eyes met the black eyes of the stranger Cathair had pointed out to her earlier between Thanesweir and Kingssquare. Up close, she could now see that the silver earring that gleamed in his left ear was in the shape of a skull. She looked at his hands first; the hands told her nothing more than she’d already known—they carried thin blade-scars, but there were none of the calluses that would have accompanied hard labour. Probably a landsman’s son, then, if not higher in station.  
  
“Who?” she asked. Two could play at that game.  
  
A thin smile broke on those lips. Handsome enough, Aniki thought. “You’ve been intent enough on him, haven’t you?” Just barely, with a tilt of his head, he indicated the distant form of Konegin, seemingly making his way through the stalls of the Northfaring market.  
  
“Perhaps,” Aniki said. She set down the spread of ribbons; mostly with the triple-knot of the hanged god of crossroads, Wod. Wod didn’t just govern crossroads, but opportunities. Chance. Some even said, luck. But never fate; wyrd was the Crone’s own domain and none trespassed there. The godsmark was carved into a dangling piece of wood at the end of the knotted ribbon. A lucky charm to hang over a door, particularly at Midwinter. “And what brings you to Hamrkeng? I’d have thought I’d remember a rusher as yourself.” She shrugged his hand off her shoulder.  
  
“I’m newly arrived to Hamrkeng,” he said, easily. “Heard about some opportunities in the city, and thought I’d come see for myself. Are you buying one of those?”  
  
Aniki glanced down at the bundle of ribbons and shrugged. Why not? “Here,” he said. He picked out one of the triple-knots out of the spread, the wooden charm dangling from its end.  
  
“Five coppers,” the stall owner, an old woman with dark eyes and frizzy hair said. She smiled briefly at Aniki, and the stranger counted them out from his purse. “Maybe buy a love-knot instead for your lady friend?”  
  
“Luck will be fine,” Aniki said, firmly. She picked up the ribbon and looped it in her sword belt. Something to hang from the doorframe when she returned later tonight. Charms peddled in the markets were normally the weakest of thread magic, and the triple-knots held the least of all.  
  
So Cathair had said. Aniki knew nothing about magery; she left that to Cathair. Cathair worked wonders with his carved wooden charms, and it was no wonder that Oswaldssra brought her business to their shared doorstep often enough.  
  
“There’s many a job for them as would look for one in Hamrkeng,” she said.  
  
“So I gathered,” he said. “What interest does a sell-sword have in the old wolf?”  
  
“What interest does a rusher have?” Aniki countered. She nodded to the stall owner, and made to leave. A hand gripped her forearm. Aniki counted to five and then broke the grip, none too gently. He yelped, nursing stung fingers. “Mind you take few liberties with a mot, laddybuck,” she said, “Lest she dunk you in an ice-pond.”  
  
She strode on through the crowd, shoving at one or two slow passersby and though they murmured at her rudeness, they let her pass. But Konigen was long gone; the trail cold. Lotr bind him and take him, Aniki cursed silently. There was no help for it then; she’d dallied far too long with the stranger, whatever his game was.  
  
She’d have to try a few other haunts, and then the White Horse.  
  


* * *

  
  
Aniki had never been one to hold grudges. Yet years after Erdskegg, she found herself drinking ale from a jack in the White Horse and keeping her ears open for any word on Konigen’s motives and movements. Everywhere was abuzz with how the Sea Wolf had returned to Hamrkeng earlier than usual, but there was precious little of what she wanted to know and what she needed to know.  
  
She considered her purse, how much she could afford to spend. A good Scanran ale, and some coin always loosened lips. How far was she going to go in pursuit of Konigen?  
  
It’d been years. Midwinter, even, when the Sea Wolf had struck. Erdskegg was a small coastal village in the north of Scanra; along where the coast met the northern reaches of the Emerald Sea. Floes of floating ice stretched beyond, bobbing about in the water as far as the ice could see. They’d always heard tales of the wilderfolk who lived beyond the line of ice and cold seawater but Aniki had never seen anything that proved those stories true.  
  
They’d been fisherfolk, rather than farmer folk. The soil was too hard to turn up anything other than the occasional cabbage, and Aniki had grown up scraping barnacles from her father’s boat.  
  
All of that had gone up in flames the winter the Sea Wolf came. She’d listened to Shiari’s cries as she was taken, strained at the wooden beam that her father’s legs had been crushed by, fingers scrabbling in the snow as the life bled from him in the killing cold. As Erdskegg burned, the young and old alike taken and sold into slavery.  
  
They’d missed her; she’d gone to gather wood for the fire, and she had nothing but the simple woodcutter’s axe which she was using to try to split the beam and then shove it aside. Three raiders, stinking of smoke and ale.  
  
Aniki had always been tall and strong for her age. She’d been angry, and frightened. She beat aside his sword, and split the skull of the first raider with her axe. She’d been overwhelmed by the second and the third.  
  
The Hammer had saved her then. She remembered how he fought; precise, focused strokes, pounding into his opponents’ defenses and then breaking and overwhelming them. He’d strode out of the smoking shell of her village like some forgotten god—the skalds had tales of the god of war wandering Scanra as a man, and even then, she’d thought he could’ve been Donnar One-Hand.  
  
He’d taken her away from the wreckage of Erdskegg, and taught her the ways of the sword. She’d become his student, the student of the swordsman so dangerous that he was known in Scanra only by his sword-name as the Hammer.  
  
In time, Aniki had left. Had come to Hamrkeng seeking work as a sell-sword. But she’d never forgotten the face of the man who’d ordered the raid on Erdskegg. She’d seen him from a distance, presiding over his men as the raiders counted the slaves they’d taken and had them put in chains.  
  
Time did much for the hurt. It hadn’t done anything to how well she knew those features.  
  
Einar Konigen.  
  
He had much to answer for.  
  
Aniki usually sat with an eye to the inn door, and now the heavy wooden door slid open and Cathair slipped into the White Horse. He glanced across the crowd of patrons, and then his eye fell on her and the table she occupied. He came over to her and took the unoccupied seat. Wordlessly, Aniki slid the jack of half-drunk ale across to him. How many had it been? Two? Three?  
  
Cathair’s large hands trembled slightly as he drank from the jack. He frowned down at them until they stilled. He was paler than usual, and his lips were drawn together in a thin line. He grunted his thanks and shoved the jack back at her. Mage’s exhaustion. Aniki recognised the signs. He’d tapped himself out.  
  
She reclaimed her jack, and glanced at it. He’d finished the ale. “You owe me the next round,” she said, lightly. Cathair made another sound that might have either been rude or agreement.  
  
“Who’s that?” he asked instead, glancing across the room at the Player. “Not the usual house Player. Donnar’s beard—it’s the rusher from the marketplace.”  
  
Startled, Aniki followed the direction of Cathair’s gaze. There he was; the stranger Cathair had pointed out to her, and the one who’d bought the luck-knot she wore in her sword-belt. He sat on a wooden stool by the fire, and was playing a lively drinking song on a set of pipes. Their eyes met, and he inclined his head slightly.  
  
Cathair hadn’t missed that. “Acquainted?” he asked, eyebrows raised.  
  
Aniki shook her head. “We had a brief encounter at Northfaring market,” she said.  
  
The piper had finished the song, and now he bowed and got up from the stool. Patrons roared and pounded their jacks against the table in approval. He spoke to the innkeeper; Aniki couldn’t hear what they were saying in the din, but their lips moved and the innkeeper seemed annoyed, but waved the piper off. The piper came over to their table, found an empty chair and pulled it up.  
  
“Hullo again lovey,” he said with a wicked grin, amusement in those dark eyes. Aniki didn’t need to look at Cathair to see the unasked question in his expression. _Later_ , she signed. Cathair nodded, and made room for the piper.  
  
“And who might you be?” he challenged.  
  
“Rosto,” the Player drawled. “And I’m speaking to Aniki Forfrysning and Cathair Idrissra.”  
  
Aniki nodded, unimpressed. Their names were known to the establishment, and if Rosto had set himself up in the White Horse, he would undoubtedly know what they answered to. “Just Rosto?”  
  
“Well, love, it’s Rosto the Piper. On account of my playing.”  
  
Cathair didn’t even bother correcting him. Aniki reached across the table and cuffed Rosto lightly. “That’s Forfrysning to you,” she said. “What business has a Player with the two of us?”  
  
“Common interests, perhaps,” Rosto said. A hint of a cold smile. “Konigen. You studied him.”  
  
Aniki made herself flash him a grin. “It helps to know a potential employer,” she said. “Particularly when you’re considering a job offer.”  
  
Cathair was always good at a bland expression, with the hint of a pleasant smile. “Your interest, Master the Piper?”  
  
Rosto shrugged. “A cove looking for opportunity comes to Hamrkeng,” he said, easily. “Maybe a glance at the old wolf. Plenty of whispers. Nothing solid.”  
  
Aniki exchanged a brief glance with Cathair. A bit of a gamble. This Rosto was an unknown quantity, all in all, but her Pa used to have a saying about taking chances. “West District,” she said. “The Street of Hares. Know it?”  
  
A flicker of a smirk. “Love,” Rosto said—she cuffed him again—“Ow! Forfrysning,” he corrected, “I learn my way around the city fast.” To Cathair, he said, “Does she always hit a cove so?”  
  
Unflappable, Cathair said, “Strange coves, aye.”  
  
“Come on,” Aniki said, standing up. Cathair gave a short nod to Rosto, and they headed out of the inn, back into the icy wind.  
  
“There’s a cove as mixed up with the Rogue business, I’d bet,” Cathair said, once they had trudged some distance from the inn. “Too interested in the Sea Wolf by half.”  
  
“Aye,” Aniki said, “If he’s not ear-deep in that, himself.”  
  
“You think he’s one of the Wolf’s?” Cathair asked. He’d stopped in the middle of the street.  
  
Aniki shrugged. “Could be,” she said. “Cove like that could be one of his Ravens, for all he’s newly arrived.” The Ravens were a piece of Scanran street slang for spies, informers, and the coves inclined to such shady work. It had to do with the god of the crossroads and the ravens that served as his lost eye.  
  
Cathair raised an eyebrow. “I’m fair tapped out,” he warned. “Compelling truth…”  
  
“No,” Aniki said, “I reckon there are other ways to get truth from a cove. Besides,” she said with a grin, “He might just have his own business, and naught else. What did Oswaldssra want?”  
  
Cathair grunted. “Tracking charms,” he said, “Some rusher’s been vanishing children all over the city. Couple of them turned up dead the other day at Kinggsquare.”  
  
“Dousing children?” Aniki repeated. Her eyes narrowed. “In West District then.”  
  
“Aye, and more’s the pity,” Cathair said. He frowned down at his boots. “Child-killers and child-stealers, and both with Midwinter around the corner.”  
  


* * *

  
  
The wind howled around the Street of Hares, but Aniki didn’t tug her coat tighter about her. Instead, she let it fall open, so the passing rushers could see she was armed and no easy prey. In any case, they knew her face and she’d cut up a few up them to earn the respect she now had. They gave both her and Cathair curt nods and a wide berth.  
  
“Reckon the Player will show?” Cathair asked.  
  
“Aye,” a voice said, and they both cast about for where it had come from. And then Aniki glanced up, and realised that he was sitting casually on the gently sloping roof of one of the houses. Rosto the Piper gave her and Cathair an almost-mocking smile, and slid off the roof, landing with a tumbler’s grace in the snow and rolling to his feet fluidly. “Well then, of what shall we speak, lovey?”  
  
Aniki rolled her eyes and her elbow hammered into his side before he could dodge. “Forfrysning,” she murmured pleasantly. “And we can talk here for a time without loose lips. Cathair?”  
  
Cathair gave a nod, and raised a hand. In his other hand, he held a carved wooden charm in the shape of a horse. Pale glacial fire flickered in the air and then was gone. A momentary cool feeling washed over Aniki and then vanished. He was seeing to that they weren’t being overheard.  
  
“Hearing ward?” Rosto asked. “He’s the mage, then.”  
  
“You know our names but you don’t know that?” Cathair muttered.  
  
The Piper smirked. “Cathair Idrissen. Studied at the Carthaki University, mage. Half a sight better than your usual clan shaman. Works mostly with carved charms and suchlike. Idrissen—grew up near the Gallan border. Fights well enough with an axe, works with a rusher by the name of Aniki Forfrysning.” He turned his dark eyes to her. “Aniki Forfrysning. Student of the Hammer. Swordsman, a terror with a blade. Forfrysning—Northern Scanran, then. I’d say the coastal villages.”  
  
Cathair folded his arms across his chest. “So you’ve done your share of asking,” he said. “Good for you.”  
  
“Have you enough of this cat and mouse game yet?” Rosto drawled. “It’s fair tiring for a cove to dance all day.”  
  
“We know little enough about you,” Aniki stated.  
  
“Me?” He swept her a florid bow and a wink. “Rosto the Piper, as I’ve said. Player, and not a bad hand with a knife. You might have heard of my Ma before. The Dancing Dove.”  
  
Cathair let out a low whistle; Aniki shook her head. “Quit dancing and be out with it.”  
  
Rosto shook his head sadly. “No patience, love?”  
  
Aniki cuffed him. “Little enough when dealing with coves who can’t remember a mot’s name,” she drawled. “Best give it to us here.”  
  
Rosto said, “Very well. The Sea Wolf’s come back to Hamrkeng early.”  
  
“We know,” Cathair said. “It’s been the talk of the town.”  
  
“Aye,” Rosto said, “But not this: he’s made a tidy profit. More gold passing through the hands of his side of the Rogue than is usual.”  
  
“Are you with the Council of Ten, then?” Aniki demanded. That changed things. The Council of Ten’s Ravens were among the most dangerous; enforcers picked by the Council and identified only by their struck warrant-discs. In theory, they answered to the elected king—if there was one—and the Council of Ten. In truth, their allegiance was often given to the Council and the Council alone. If this Rosto was an agent of the Council, then she wanted none of it. Dangerous work—too dangerous by far.  
  
“No,” Rosto replied. “Just a cove who hears a fair bit,” he tried offering her a charming smile but she ignored it. “Thing is, a cove comes to Hamrkeng looking for opportunities. Maybe he looks to move up in the Rogue.”  
  
Aniki and Cathair exchanged glanced. “Not in Scanra,” Aniki said, slowly. “Or at least not in Hamrkeng. Word is that the southerners challenge for the Rogue’s seat. Here, you’d have to make district chief first. Rogue is elected by the chiefs, and usually from their ranks.”  
  
Rosto snorted. “Of course,” he said loftily, “And I had a plan for that. The Sea Wolf works for the East District chief, yes? Ragnar Magnussen. How would Ragnar feel if his loyal lieutenant—” his smirk redoubled upon those words, “—was holding out on him?”  
  
“The gold,” Cathair said. “You think he’s not handing over the usual share?”  
  
“Oh no,” Rosto said, with a sly grin, “But I reckon that if Ragnar knew that the Sea Wolf was making a tidier profit than usual and hadn’t seen fit to cut his chief in…”  
  
“That’s an awful lot of supposition,” Cathair stated.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“And what do we get to show for it?” Aniki asked.  
  
Rosto rolled his eyes. “Oh, please,” he said. “You were watching the Sea Wolf. Doubtless you have some score to settle with him. Well, if Ragnar knows that the Sea Wolf is crossing him, he’ll throw the man under the wagon and you can do as you please with him.”  
  
“We’ll expect payment,” Cathair added.  
  
Rosto laughed. “Idrissen, I’m not hiring you. My angle’s that we’re better off…combining approaches. He’s got something we both want. Deal?”  
  
Aniki glanced at Cathair. He shrugged, and then nodded reluctantly. “Deal.”  
  
They clasped hands briefly, and then Rosto added, “ _Now_ can we get out of the cold?”  
  
“What kind of Scanran are you?” Aniki muttered, nodding to Cathair. He dispelled the warding, and once again, she felt the brief cool shiver as his Gift washed over her and then vanished.  
  
Rosto said, defensively, “I grew up in the south.”  
  
“As did half of Hamrkeng,” Aniki muttered. Or so it seemed like these days.  
  


* * *

  
  
Following the Sea Wolf’s movements was easy. The Sea Wolf was a conspicuous presence in Hamrkeng on most days, and Aniki found herself admiring the ease with which Rosto struck up conversations, charmed information from stall owners, and kept an eye on what the Wolf was doing.  
  
She had a Raven of her own; Old Mags who made soap from discarded tallow and ashes in the Fleamarket in the square before the old town hall. Rosto accompanied her as she approached where Old Mags had set up her stall.  
  
“Aniki!” Old Mags said, glancing up from her soapmaker’s tools. She wiped her hands on her apron, beaming gap-toothed. “Come to see an old woman at work? Have a look at my soaps?”  
  
“Aye,” Aniki said, gruffly. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Rosto was turning over the collection of soaps, even sniffing at them curiously.  
  
“And who is this young cove you’ve brought to see me?”  
  
“Rosto the Piper,” he said, and offered her a charming smile. “Pleased, Mistress…”  
  
Old Mags gave a caw of laughter. “Oh, don’t start now, young scamp! I haven’t been called Mistress in a long time. What happened to Cathair?” That last was addressed to Aniki.  
  
“Working,” Aniki said. She held up a lump of soap that had been shaped like a pinecone, and breathed in the sticky scent of pine sap. “You’ve scented them?”  
  
“Aye, for the season,” Old Mags said. “Brings in a good amount of coin now and then.”  
  
“Pine sap,” Rosto said, thoughtfully. “Know you aught of plants as will dye these?”  
  
“Aye,” Old Mags said, “Greenthorn will give ye a deep green, and fennel a pale faun. More difficult to find are the violets for blue or light purples, and madder. Always madder for red. It’s the season colour, but cursed difficult for an old woman to find.”  
  
“What about rowan berries?” Rosto suggested, naming a plant commonly found in the outskirts of Hamrkeng. “Crushed, they should give a pretty scarlet for your soaps. And some scent.”  
  
“Where did you find this lad?” Old Mags asked Aniki. “Knows an uncommon lot about plants, he does. Thank you kindly, Piper.”  
  
“I’ll take these,” Aniki said, choosing several of her soaps, and then paying with two gold crowns; more than the soaps would have been worth. Leaning forward and lowering her voice, she asked, “Know you aught of what’s been happening?”  
  
Old Mags didn’t protest the extra coin; she packed the soaps in old wrapping with practised efficiency and made the coin vanish. “Aye,” she said, quietly. “There’s child-stealers and child-killers on the loose, and naught good’ll come of it, mark my words. Children vanish from the Midwinter markets, and in the crowd, there’s few as will see when a rusher takes a child that isn’t his.”  
  
“The Sea Wolf, Mistress,” Rosto added. “Has there been any word of him?”  
  
Old Mags sketched the godsmark on the stall counter. “Little good,” she said. “Back in Hamrkeng and sauntering around like the leader of a war band.”  
  
“Child-killers,” Aniki said, and added a Scanran curse to the words.  
  
“Takes a special kind of rusher as will harm a child,” Old Mags said, “And the Crone take them as do.”  
  
“So mote it be,” Rosto said. Aniki echoed him.  
  
She thought of Shiari.  
  


* * *

  
  
It was chance, more than anything else, that finally led them to stumble upon what the Sea Wolf had been up to. Aniki had been moving around, talking to the rushers and sell-swords she knew and listening in on conversations at inns. Rosto had done what he did best, but even then they had nothing but minor pieces and little to show for it. Everyone knew the Sea Wolf was a slaver and a raider; perhaps this season had been particularly fruitful?  
  
“And may the Crone take him,” spat Athel, one of the rushers with a frightful series of scars and a reputation for being indiscriminate and quick with his axe. The idea of Scanrans preying on Scanrans and being sold into slavery sat ill with him. Others did not share that opinion. Slavery in the soft south, some held, was a far better fate than serfdom; just another set of chains that bound them to noblemen and their whims, working the hard, unforgiving Scanran soil.  
  
But Cathair was the one who’d turned up the damning link, and only because he’d worked tracking charms for Oswaldssra. The tracking charms he’d carved were designed to work for those without the Gift, but because they were his charms, he realised the Watch had tracked them to a warehouse in the East District.  
  
Right in the heart of Ragnar’s territory.  
  
“I need a better view,” Rosto murmured. He looked at Aniki briefly and then swarmed up the wall of a nearby house like a four-legged spider. It was a beauty to watch, Aniki thought, as he found handholds in what seemed like an old stone wall and hauled himself to the top of the roof.  
  
She didn’t try to follow him, despite that pang of envy. Acrobatics had never been something she’d attempted, and she was content to leave those skills to Rosto. Instead, she surveyed the area on foot. The warehouse was guarded, by heavily armed rushers. They even wore chainmail, and though some were rust-spotted, she had no doubt they knew how to use the axes and swords they carried.  
  
“Not good,” Cathair said, quietly. He kept pace with her.  
  
“No,” Aniki said. “Not at all.”  
  
A heavily guarded warehouse in the middle of the East District—it likely served as the staging area for whatever the Sea Wolf was doing. “Hsst!” Cathair sissed, and dragged her back behind a house wall as a pair of rushers came by.  
  
Aniki’s blood ran cold in her veins. It was not fear. It was a cold, quiet sort of anger. One of them carried the unmoving body of one of Hamrkeng’s missing children.  
  
She thanked Wod for Cathair’s quick-thinking. Despite the houses, the area must have been under the Sea Wolf’s control, or there would have been too many people who would have seen something of what was going on.  
  
Children.  
  
The Sea Wolf was behind the kidnap and killing of Hamrkeng’s children.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Child stealing,” Rosto said, shortly. He’d commandeered the kitchen counter and perched there. Rather, Aniki thought, like a cat. “But to what end?”  
  
“What else?” Cathair told him. “He’s selling them, cabbage head.”  
  
Rosto looked outraged. “Cabbage head?” he demanded.  
  
Aniki grinned. “I like it,” she informed Cathair. “Cabbage head.”  
  
“I’ll have you know you could compliment my looks!” Rosto muttered. “My charm! My smile!”  
  
“Yes, cabbage head,” Aniki teased. “So he’s taken to setting up an operation in Hamrkeng and selling them for a tidy profit. Children.”  
  
“Yes,” Cathair said. There was anger on his mild features; he was as angry as she’d ever seen him. Angry enough to fight, to kill even. There were only so many times something had made Cathair as furious, and the more Aniki thought about it, the more she remembered they’d always been child-killers. “We take them to the Watch.”  
  
“No,” Rosto said. “You take them to the Watch, and the Sea Wolf makes them disappear. The children vanish. Maybe he douses the whole batch. We find a way in, we discover what he’s doing. We know who he’s selling them to, and what his plans are.”  
  
“And you get something to bring to Ragnar, don’t you?” Aniki asked.  
  
Rosto smirked. “Yes. But not at the expense of the children. A cove can only be so heartless, love.”  
  
She whacked him, lightly, upside the head.  
  


* * *

  
  
The plan was simple, as all things were. Cathair was adamant that the Watch be informed. In the end, they made a compromise; Cathair wrote a letter detailing what they had discovered. He’d left it in the keeping of Old Mags, who was instructed to deliver it to Oswaldssra herself if there was no word from them by the next day. Rosto would break into the warehouse, take out the children and bring them to safety. Aniki and Cathair would impersonate rushers and enter the warehouse proper.  
  
They waited for moondark before making their move. Rosto was a pale figure on the rooftops, shadowing their progress as Aniki and Cathair followed the narrow streets, retracing their steps to the warehouse.  
  
“Someday,” Cathair said, so quietly that Aniki had barely heard him.  
  
“Someday?” she asked.  
  
“I’d like to get out of this sell-sword business,” he muttered. “Open a shop of my own. Make…some things that don’t have to be charms. Don’t have to take the Gift, you know?”  
  
She clapped his shoulder lightly. She’d performed her stretches, checked her blades for the slightest nick and whetted them in preparation for the violence to come. Cathair had prepared a few charms. “Maybe someday,” Aniki said, at last.  
  
Cathair fell silent. She could hear his breathing, in the dark. He was focused, now, and intent on the task at hand. It was something that had drawn her to him, back then. How the mild cove could vanish, replaced by an intensity that could not be deflected by anything.  
  
At nightfall, the rushers changed shifts. They’d watched the pattern of the guard enough to know where the replacements would arrive. The plan was to knock them out and steal their outfits. In the dark, the rushers would be prone to mistakes.  
  
_There_ , Aniki signalled. Cathair gave her a tight nod, and then they both stepped out at once from cover, getting into place behind the rushers. They never knew what had befallen them, as a sword and an axe, both wielded with deadly efficiency, killed them from behind. Aniki clapped a hand over her rusher’s mouth to prevent him from crying out. As he dropped to the ground, she glanced at his armour and winced. A jerkin with chain-mail sleeves, badly maintained, but there was no helping that. She shrugged into it. Cathair, too, had managed a clean kill, and there was little, if any blood darkening his jerkin.  
  
They pulled the stripped bodies to the side of the alley, where they would hopefully not be discovered for a time. “Ready?” Aniki asked. Cathair nodded.  
  
“Let’s go,” he said. From above, Rosto watched.  
  


* * *

  
  
“About time too,” one of the rushers on duty grumbled, as they headed in. Out of the corner of her eye, Aniki saw a faint movement, but didn’t glance in that direction. That would have been Rosto, making his way around on the roofs to the back of the warehouse, in the hopes of finding an egress point.  
  
“Can’t be helped,” Cathair said gruffly. “Was a delay.”  
  
“Ya, more like you was drunk,” another rusher snapped.  
  
“Oh, shut it,” the first rusher grumbled. “ _I_ want to get drunk and find myself a gixie. Well then, the password?”  
  
Plans never survived first contact with the enemy. Aniki’s eyes flicked to Cathair. He didn’t nod, but she knew he was ready. In a single, smooth moment, she drew her sword and ran the rusher through in a textbook lunge. He wore chainmail, but the point of the blade was more dangerous, and it took him through his undefended throat.  
  
At the same time, Cathair had turned and drawn his axe. He threw one of his blinker charms to the ground. Expecting it, Aniki closed her eyes, estimated where the next rusher had been, and cut. Bright white light exploded from the blinker charm, turning night into day. It also screamed where they were to any alert rusher in the neighbourhood, and now half of Hamrkeng probably knew they were raiding the Sea Wolf’s warehouse.  
  
There was a cry of pain and the feel of resistance as her sword bit deep into a rusher. But while they were blinded, Aniki had closed her eyes, and now she recovered first, killing the rusher she’d cut and putting a thrown dagger through the other. Cathair’s axe struck home, cutting down the others where they stood.  
  
“Trickster’s luck,” Cathair spat. He set another wooden charm, this one shaped like a stag’s head to the metal lock of the warehouse door. He said a word, and pale green fire flared and then went dark. He was sweating now, and almost lost his balance. Aniki found the hip flask of ale and offered it to him. He shrugged and took a long sip from it. “Thanks,” he gasped. “Mage bespelled the locks.”  
  
Which was why they hadn’t bothered with lockpicks. Aniki tried the door and this time, it creaked open. Which was when she heard the clash of steel.  
  
There were guards in the warehouse as well. Children were penned up in wooden cages, hung up on the walls like game. Cathair’s eyes narrowed; he let out a low growl of anger. “That bastard,” he muttered.  
  
“Hush,” Aniki murmured, although she too, burned with a cold, furious anger. “He’ll pay for this.” Rosto was fighting the guards and she’d never seen a cove move so fast. He was a graceful blur of motion, flicking thrown knives into rushers, combining throws, punches, kicks, and the longer saxe knife that he wielded.  
  
He thrust the knife into the throat of a guard, whirled and a dagger appeared in his hand and left it as swiftly, burying itself in the last. He kicked out, wrenching his knife from the body of the dying man. “Is that your idea of stealth?” he asked them, cheekily.  
  
“The Sea Wolf will come,” Cathair said. “Doubtless his mage told him when his wards were destroyed.”  
  
“Take the children,” Aniki said. She was searching the bodies of the fallen, and now she found a set of brass keys. He tossed them to Cathair, and he moved over to the cages, opening them one by one. Rosto raised a pale eyebrow at her.  
  
“We’re in this together,” he said.  
  
“The children are what’s important. You yourself said it.”  
  
“Aye, and what if that’s changed?”  
  
She narrowed her eyes and glanced at him. Rosto’s smile was almost mocking as he whispered, “A cove has to try, hasn’t he?” He bent down and kissed her, on the lips. She would’ve cuffed him for it, but he was a good kisser, and a brief warmth spread through her as he pulled away. “Luck, Forfrysning. Be good now,” he informed her. He retrieved his knives and cleaned them off with quick efficiency.  
  
As Rosto and Cathair talked a whole group of frightened children into calming down and following Rosto, Aniki took up position near the door of the warehouse. From the back of her collar, she produced a knife and her other hand gripped her drawn sword.  
  
Faintly, she heard the lively dancing notes of Scanran pipe music; she turned her head back. Rosto had produced his pipes and was playing to the children to calm them down, urging them to follow him.  
  
“A good sort, for a Player,” Cathair said, quietly. He was bleeding from a cut to his lip.  
  
“Aye,” Aniki said. Pretty too, if she was looking. “Come. Best take this outside.” There were only so many of them, and while she was reluctant to give up the advantage afforded them by the confined space, she also knew that if the Sea Wolf laid eyes on the escaping children, they’d never protect them all.  
  
They’d laid a trap, and now the Wolf was coming.  
  


* * *

  
  
It was not long before the Sea Wolf emerged. Aniki knew that shock of flame-red hair, the anger in those pale eyes. Part of her had dreamed of it, the feel of her blades in her hands, had planned out every single move and way she could take down the Sea Wolf.  
  
It was time to put the Wolf down.  
  
He came at the head of a band of rushers, eyes narrowed with anger. Her awareness expanded, taking in the bodies that lay on the cobblestones, the man who hung at the back of the Wolf’s group—probably a mage, for yellow fire danced about his hands. “Take care of him,” Aniki told Cathair, and didn’t need to see his nod.  
  
She glided forward. Every step was a blow, and every blow was a step, struck to get her closer to the Wolf. Her sword cut a rusher in the throat, and her follow-up with her dagger parried a blow from another rusher who’d tried to flank her. Her sword flashed as she ran that attacker threw, and then cast a dagger straight into the eye of another rusher. As she tried to draw her dagger, it was a quick game of feint and parry as two rushers closed in on her. Her sword ripped through the first, and drawing her dagger, she pricked the second in the armpit.  
  
He paused, blood trickling down his arm. He was more wary of her now, and she gave him a wolfish grin. “Come on, lad,” she taunted. “Afraid of one rusher with a sword?”  
  
He didn’t answer her, but his sword scored a blow across her ribs, and Aniki was forced backwards and on the defensive. _Careless_ , she thought, with a curse. The wound felt light, and she bound his sword in a quick movement and then cut his throat with her dagger.  
  
He collapsed, and she advanced to engage the Sea Wolf, at last.  
  
Einar Konigen wielded his axe like a toy. Aniki assessed that, and the threat he posed in the way she’d been taught by the Hammer. Typical solidly built Scanran opponent. “I’m going to enjoy punishing you, girl,” he taunted.  
  
Her answering smirk was cold. “I’ve been waiting for this,” she said. She darted in, not so much committing to an attack as feeling out his defense. Konigen was strong, and surprisingly quick; a solid blow from that axe with his weight behind it would put her out of this duel, which meant she had to be constantly on her guard and quick on her feet. She’d need that extra dagger after all.  
  
He knew that too; one opening and she would be dead.  
  
She gave him the opening.  
  
As Konigen’s axe moved in for her shoulder, Aniki crossed the long dagger and her sword and stepped into the blow. She held firm, stopping Konigen’s axe cold. In the next moment, as he withdrew, she flung the dagger with a flick of her wrist. It entered his throat, and she tore it free.  
  
She was close enough to watch the light fade from his eyes, and she spat. “Crone take you,” she said, as she stood up. She didn’t retrieve her dagger.  
  
The Wolf was dead.  
  


* * *

  
  
Two days later, Rosto found her at the White Horse, staring at a jack of ale. She glanced up as he came by; a scarlet band was wrapped around his shoulder. “Ragnar was…most interested in what Konigen had been doing,” he said, without any preamble.  
  
“You’re his lieutenant now.”  
  
He nodded, the smug smirk not leaving his face. Like a cat that had been in the cream. Cathair’s head had been laid open and he’d suffered from a cracked skull. The healers instructed he get a good deal of bed rest, though she suspected he was turning his Gift to accelerating his healing, even though he’d never been much of a healer.  
  
“Listen, Aniki,” he said, as she visited him in his bed. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I’d bought myself a shop along Jarlsweg. A small carpentry shop, with rooms above the shop for sleeping in. I was thinking…well, you know,” he continued awkwardly. “I’ve been wanting to set down the axe for some time.”  
  
“I know,” Aniki said, and she did know. “I understand. Get well soon, Cathair.” She held his hand, pressed it lightly for a moment, and then left. He’d been a good friend since she’d come to Hamrkeng, and the winter sunshine was painfully bright in her eyes.  
  
Rosto had taken the children to one of the orphanages in the city, dedicated to Athelgir the Hearthkeeper, the god who governed guest-right and hospitality. From there, the Watch had become involved and some of the children were reunited with their parents. But first of all, Konigen had been clever. He’d sought out orphans, and many of those had been taken in by the orphanage. The Hearthkeeper’s adherents never turned away those who came to their doorstep, and not especially in Midwinter.  
  
Midwinter was supposed to be a time of cheer and joy. She should have been satisfied, Aniki thought, but she’d already known that killing the Sea Wolf wouldn’t bring Erdskegg back. She’d done it because he needed killing, nothing more.  
  
It hadn’t brought Shiari back.  
  
She stared at the jack and wondered what she was going to do. For the first time, like Cathair, she’d begun to feel weary with the life of a sell-sword. She hadn’t been spurred by thoughts of revenge, but killing the Sea Wolf hadn’t been as satisfying as she imagined. It was done. That was it. But what next?  
  
“There were papers,” Rosto said. “He’d been selling the children on the sly, earning a good amount of gold too, and keeping the operation from Ragnar’s eyes. And…” he paused. “He had logs.”  
  
“Logs?” Aniki repeated.  
  
“Previous raids, previous sales. He raided your village, didn’t he?”  
  
Aniki’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been speaking to Cathair,” she accused.  
  
“Among other things,” Rosto agreed, unruffled. “He sold your sister. Took her to the slave market in Corus, Tortall, and sold her.”  
  
He sold Shiari. She’d known that, but finding evidence that this had happened…Aniki realised her hands were clenched around the wood of the table. She made herself relax. Corus. She had a name, and a place now. Maybe one day…  
  
Too many years had gone by. The time that had been taken from them couldn’t be returned. Perhaps Shiari was dead, or sold elsewhere from Corus. Slaves changed owners, many a time. Still…  
  
“And,” he said. “You’ve got a new neighbour. Cathair’s moving out, so he spoke to me, and asked me if I’d like his rooms. So I’m moving in.” Aniki blinked.  
  
“What?” she finally managed.  
  
“What, you don’t want a charming roommate, love?” Rosto asked, but the smile faded, and didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Look. Forfrysning. I know that…” he bit out, “You’re not interested, but I rather fancy myself good with my blades. And I’ve seen and heard about how you wield that sword of yours. There’s a job on the table, if you’re interested.”  
  
Aniki thought about it. The line between sell-sword and rusher grew awfully thin at times. And she thought about what Rosto was offering. Not just a job, she realised. They could be partners. Even friends. She thought about how he’d talked to Old Mags about herbs, how he’d played his pipes and led the children off.  
  
“Alright,” she said, “You’re buying the drinks, cabbage head.”  
  
And as Rosto called for a round of spiced mead, and insisted that this was on him, Aniki felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the merrily crackling fire, or the hot platter of meats that the server set down on the table. She had friends, she thought. Cathair had carved and enspelled a slender pair of wooden-hilted daggers for her, of fine steel. It had taken time, even months in the making. He’d thought about her, spoken to Rosto, who, all things considered, wasn’t a bad sort.  
  
She’d lost everything when Erdskegg fell. And not for the first time, Aniki realised she’d gained so much more. Friends who looked out for her. Almost like family. “A happy Midwinter to you too,” she told Rosto, and they bumped jacks.  
  
She drained it, down to the last dregs.

**Author's Note:**

> Done for the Merry Ficmas exchange at Goldenlake: specifically, the prompt, "Young Rosto/ Aniki in Scanra." I know Kora Ingensra is missing from the picture at the moment: the headcanon I was working with for this fic is that they don't (yet) meet Kora. 
> 
> I'm aware this deliberately ignores Pierce's canon on there being no slaves in Scanra because of food shortages. (Or at least, it sort of jostles against it: if Tortall has all that food and the demand for a slaves, then enterprising Scanrans probably can profit off raiding, grabbing a bunch of people, and selling them on to slavery in Tortall.)
> 
> Finally: we know many Scanran names follow the -sra/-sri format. Daine is Sarrasri (Sara's daughter) because her father was unknown, and she specifically claims that this naming format is a product of their living so close to the Scanran border. (Does make you wonder if there are any -sra/-sri people in Tortall, particularly around the border, but I digress.) We have Sarra Beneksri, Inar Hadensra, Kora Ingensra, etcetera. [Edited note on Kora thanks to LadyoftheBookworms!]
> 
> Three main exceptions: Rosto the Piper (clearly an adopted name), Maggur Rathhausak, and Aniki Forfrysning. The best explanation, I think, is to attribute different naming traditions to different parts of Scanra. The closer we get to the shared border with Galla - so, southeast Scanra - the more names follow the -sra/-sri convention. The further northwest we go, the more names follow what we see with Rathhausak and Forfrysning, rather than just a patronymic. That's the idea that this fic is running with, anyway.


End file.
